


Snip

by Patronoftheravens



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Tardif is actually kind of tolerable, honestly this is only bc wraith likes shaving, more shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 08:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17784053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patronoftheravens/pseuds/Patronoftheravens
Summary: The sequel (no) to Scruff. Heard you liked Dismas shaving Tardif? Well here's Tardif shaving Dismas. Blame Wraith.





	Snip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MnM_ov_doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/gifts).



> More fluff? More fluff. I'll write for this ship until I stop, which isn't soon. Anything for my audience of three. I'll even post the weird AUs if you ask nicely.

“Didn’t think you’d be one to agree to this.”

“Quit talkin’.”

“Just sayin’.”

“Don’t wanna cut you so shut it.”

Dismas keeps quiet as Tardif drags the razor along his cheek, his other hand grips Dismas’ jaw with a sure hand. He’s rather familiar with the blade, the strokes are firm, confident. Dismas’ skin tingles pleasantly with the sensation of the blade barely scraping over it. It’s rather domestic. Tardif usually doesn’t do domestic but, here he is, tenderly shaving the vagrant’s scruff from Dismas’ jaw.

“Spent too long in that damned place,” Tardif’s eyes aren’t on Dismas’, they’re on his hands, making sure they don’t stray. Dismas starts to open his mouth but Tardif’s eyes flick up with raised eyebrows. He smiles, stays quiet, “neck’s a mess too,” that was a quiet musing to himself. If it were any noisier outside, Dismas wouldn’t have caught it. 

There was a time when if Tardif pressed a blade to his throat, Dismas would think he was breathing his last. Now it’s just a part of a routine. He complies when Tardif’s grip on his jaw tips his head up so he could actually clean his neck up. It’s a quick process really. Tardif is more than comfortable with the straight razor. He pauses halfway through to strop the blade on the leather strip across his thigh then resumes his careful ministrations. 

The silence is comforting. Tardif doesn’t like talking. Drunk Tardif likes talking, but that’s mostly in French. All Dismas has learned from that is swears, not that those aren’t useful. Sober Tardif doesn’t like talking. It took Dismas a whole two months to actually get the damned mask off for extended periods of time. 

Tardif once more manipulates his head to a more suitable position as he rinses the remaining shave soap from his face and neck. Calloused hands apply an herby aftershave then pull away. They fold the straight razor back into its wooden handle and tuck it in Tardif’s back pocket. 

“There. Presentable almost.”

“Coat ruins it?”

“Belts.”

“They have their uses.”

Tardif shrugs, “S’pose they’ve saved your life.”

Dismas leans in, catches Tardif’s lips with his own. He pulls away slow, but the kiss was quick enough it caught the hunter off guard. He stands stunned for a moment, then smiles just a hint, barely a quirk of the lips. The door opens to the bunk and the mask goes back on, the smile fades. Later, then. 


End file.
